The Lost

Chapter Fifteen

It’s like kissing sunlight. His lips are warm and soft, and I feel his body against mine. His hands are in my hair and then on my face, cupping my cheeks.

For an instant, I am not lost.

But then he draws back.

I feel his body shift away, and I’m cold. Air drifts between us. He doesn’t speak. I hear him turn, and I think his back must be toward me. I reach toward him but stop before my fingers can brush his skin.

I touch my lips and feel more alone than I did before.

I lie still and stare at the dark rectangles that I know are the masterpieces. I imagine that I’m on that ship in the Sea of Galilee, and I’m pulling on the rigging with my full weight, waiting for the clouds to break, waiting to be saved, trusting I will be saved. I listen to Peter’s breath as it slows. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in... I mimic that, trying to will myself to sleep within the rhythm of his breath.

I dream of the crash of waves and the feel of water on my skin and the softness of Peter’s lips. I don’t wake until dawn.

Sunlight pierces the slats of the barn, and I am looking up at the Rembrandt from within the tangle of blankets. Peter is awake beside me. He’s propped up on one elbow and is looking down at me. I remember the kiss, and my eyes fix on his lips. I force myself to meet his eyes. He doesn’t say anything. Neither do I.

I could joke, laugh it off.

I could explain myself, though I don’t have a decent explanation.

I could pretend it didn’t happen.

I could ask him what he’s thinking, why he kissed me back and why he pulled away.

I could ask if he still thinks I’m beautiful and clever and funny, or if he ever did.

I could ask if he wants to kiss me again.

I don’t do any of these things. Instead I draw my knees up to my chest and hug them. He’s still looking at me, so I look at the Rembrandt. “That’s Rembrandt.” I point to one of the figures on a boat. “He painted himself into the painting. There are fourteen figures. Jesus, twelve disciples, and Rembrandt.”

“Had a high opinion of himself.”

I point to a Picasso. “That one was dumped into the trash after its theft, but the Dumpster was empty when it was searched.” I point next at a golden, glittering portrait of a woman, a painting by Klimt. “Nazis stole that. Confiscated it. It was supposed to be donated to a gallery in Austria, I think, but it never made it.”

“You know all of these?”

I study the sparkling gold in the Klimt painting. “Saddest thing about stolen art is that only the thief can view them. They’re meant to be seen.”

“You’re seeing them.”

“Yes.” He’s not looking at the art; he’s looking at me. I want to ask him what he’s thinking, but I’m a coward so I don’t.

“You’re an artist.” It wasn’t a question.

I shrug and wish I’d chosen another topic. “I’m not a Rembrandt or Picasso. Not even close. For a while, I tried to find a job as a graphic artist...but I wasn’t lucky.”

“You should paint here.”

“I’m painting the house. Or I plan to.”

“You should paint this.” He gestured at the masterpieces on the wall. “You have time. You’ve bought yourself time.”

For an instant, I am tempted. I think of the attic room and my vision for it, filled with easels and paints. But it’s not realistic. “If Victoria and Sean don’t change their minds and raise a mob instead, and if I had a century or two worth of art classes, then yes, but you said yourself the lie wouldn’t buy much time.”

“I can’t help with the art classes.” Shedding the sheets, he stands. He’s shirtless and as stunningly beautiful as the masterpieces around him. “But I can check on the existence of a mob.” After an instant’s hesitation, he holds out his hand. I take it, and he draws me up. I’m standing close to him. His body feels warm. He’s looking at me, and I wonder if he’s thinking about the taste of my lips the way I’m thinking about his.

If he wants to pretend it didn’t happen, then...

No.

I am not going to feel like a teenager, awkward and wondering what he thinks of me. I tilt my head up and look directly into his eyes. “If I kiss you again, will you turn away from me?”

His eyes widen slightly. He licks his lips. I can tell that every muscle in him is tense as if he wants to run, and I suddenly feel like I want to laugh. He can’t be afraid of me. I’m the most powerless person in this entire town. I have less information, less experience, less everything than anyone here. Yet he’s looking at me as if I’m a rattlesnake. Except I don’t think he wants to run from me.

I take a step closer, experimentally.

He flinches back.

And then it’s suddenly not funny. “It’s okay. We can pretend it didn’t happen. Let’s go find Claire.” I start to turn away, and he catches my arm. He draws me closer, and then he’s kissing me.

I sink into his arms, and he melts against me.

The barn door bursts open. “Peter! Lauren!” Claire races in. “Victoria and Sean did it! And people believed them and it worked! The void is back where it belongs. Everyone’s gathering in the streets. They’re actually having a party. There’s music. And food. And a man is making balloon animals!” She holds out a pink balloon dog. One leg has popped, but the knots keep the rest intact.

“That’s great, Claire.” I try for a cheerful tone.

She lowers the balloon animal. “Were you two kissing?”

“Um...”

“Yes,” Peter says. He picks up his trench coat and throws it over his shoulders. Hurriedly, I stuff the blankets and pillows into the backpacks. I feel my face blushing as red as a stop sign.

She looks from one of us to the other. “You don’t look happy about it. Were you doing it right?”

Peter stomps past her. “Yes.”

I pause to throw the sheets over the masterpieces. By the time I’m done hiding them, Peter is on the rooftops. “Where are you going?” I call after him.

“I’m going to find the Missing Man,” he calls back.

“But you hate him,” Claire says. “And he hates you.”

“I have to ask him a question,” he says. He then races across the rooftops, leaving Claire and me behind on the ground.

Midday, I swim in the ocean again and hope the water will calm the endless please find him, please find him, please find him...that is stuck on repeat in my brain. The blueness fills my eyes, and the water caresses my skin. I breathe in the saltiness and feel it seep into me, soothing me. Around me, the fish brush against my legs. I feel them nibble and then dart away, like tiny kisses. I think about how Peter said he couldn’t find the Missing Man, and I wonder if that means that Peter lied or if it means that he will fail. I dive under the waves, open my eyes, and feel the sea sting my eyes and see the orange, yellow, and pink coral with the blue, silver, and striped fish. I burst out of the water and swim back to shore, where Claire is building sand castles out of wet desert sand and lost utensils.

Peter hasn’t returned. But the void is back on the horizon, nearly as far away as it was. So I try to take solace in that fact and not think about Peter or the Missing Man. Or Mom. I haven’t let myself think about her lately.

In the late afternoon, Claire and I head out to scavenge for dinner. She’s delighted with a box of macaroni and cheese, even though we don’t have milk or butter, and I find an avocado, an unopened package of American cheese, and a stale tortilla, which I envision transforming into an okay quesadilla. We wait until nearly dark to eat, in case Peter comes back. But he doesn’t.

In the shadows of the kitchen, we eat what we found then heat up the leftovers from Sean’s meatloaf and pair them with an apple. The apple has a bite out of it. I cut that part off and wash it thoroughly. It makes a decent dessert.

At night, I tuck in Claire with her teddy bears plus Mr. Rabbit. I kiss each of them on the forehead and then I retreat to my bedroom. It feels extra quiet, and I’m extra aware that the closet is empty. It takes me a long time to fall asleep. Eventually, I do.

I wake in the night to the sound of a creak. I freeze and then I slither out of bed. We have a plan for intruders—I get low as fast as possible, and Peter— But Peter isn’t in the closet. I creep to the corner of the bed and peer out. There is a silhouette in the doorway. I see the shape of a man in the moonlight, a coat swirling around him. “Peter?” I whisper.

“I didn’t find him yet.” Peter slips into the closet without another word, and he shuts the door. I stand in the moonlight and feel as if a wave is crashing inside me. He didn’t find him, didn’t find him, didn’t find him. Slowly, I climb back into bed.

At least he hadn’t lied.

“Missed you today,” I say.

No response.

“You know, you don’t have to sleep in the closet. There’s room here.” As soon as I say it, I wish I could draw the words back as if they were in a balloon on a string.

I don’t want a relationship.

I don’t want to lead him on.

I don’t want to be alone.

He doesn’t come out. So it’s a moot point. Eventually, I fall back to sleep.

I wake slightly when I feel the bed sink down. Wrapping his arm around my waist, he lies quietly beside me. And we both sleep.

In the morning, there’s an indent on the pillow where he lay. I rise, shower, and dress and head to the kitchen, where he usually is in the morning. Only Claire is there, perched on the counter, scrounging through a bag of airline peanuts. “He left again,” she says. “I don’t know why you want the Missing Man back. Don’t you want to stay with me? Don’t you like me?” She has tears on her long eyelashes.

I hug her and feel as if my heart is shattering. “Of course I like you.” I have a burst of inspiration. “Maybe when Peter finds the Missing Man, he can send you back with me.”

Claire wipes her eyes with her fist. “Really?”

I hesitate but only for a few seconds. I don’t think she notices. “Yes.”

She throws her arms around my neck and squeezes, and I’m sure I said the right thing. At least I think I’m sure. We can make it work. Mom would like having a little girl around. And maybe we can find Claire’s family. In the time since Claire was lost, the police could have located them. They could miss her as much as I miss my mother. Leaving her could have been a mistake they regret, or an accident. They could be mourning her, and her return would be a miracle.

I look at her, and I swear I see a soft white glow framing her face. If I look directly at her, it vanishes, but it teases the corners of my eyes. My heart beats faster. “Claire—”

Outside, I hear the clatter of tin cans.

Our alarm.

Claire and I look at each other. We don’t speak. We each know our roles. Keeping low, I scoot into the kitchen, and I take one of the knives from the kitchen drawer. There are plenty of lost guns around Lost, but we don’t have any of them. I can’t practice with them—they’re too loud, and they’d draw attention—so at best they could only be used against me. Knives, though...we have knives. Knife in hand, I creep to the dining room window.

The tin cans were strung over the front gate. It could have been something as simple as a squirrel that set them off, or it could have been a feral dog. Or it could have been a person. Claire scrambles out the back window. She’ll climb up on the roof. If necessary, she has a brace of knives up there by the chimney, as well as slingshots and a few miniature catapults that she and Peter built out of scraps. She can attack from above while I handle the ground.

There’s a knock on the front door.

That’s...odd, I think. I peer out the window. Victoria and Sean are on the porch, waiting by the door. Using oven mitts, Sean carries a Crock-Pot.

“Oh, hi!” Claire calls from the roof.

I march over to the front door and yank it open. “Seriously? Do you know how many people could have followed you? Did anyone follow you? What do you want?”

Sean holds out the pot. “Breakfast!”

“Glad you’re home.” Victoria sweeps inside, oblivious to the knife in my hand, perhaps because she has a gun in her Gucci purse or something. I flinch at the word home.

Claire drops onto the porch. “Please say that’s hot oatmeal!”

“It is,” Sean says gravely.

“With brown sugar?”

“And honey.”

Claire drags him inside and into the dining room. She then fetches bowls and spoons for everyone. I hang back by the door. “What do you want?” I repeat. “Did anyone follow you?” I think of telling them that Peter is out looking for the Missing Man, but I don’t.

“You’re a suspicious one,” Victoria says. “I like that.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Guess you’ll just have to trust us.”

“Or I could leave.”

“Lauren!” Claire whines. “Brown sugar and honey!”

“And fresh fruit,” Sean says.

I don’t know why I can’t make myself feel friendly. I’m the one who said I wanted allies, and here they are with breakfast, a clear peace offering. But Victoria is smiling too brightly, and Sean’s face is flushed.

“We may have told a few people about you,” Sean says. I feel my heart thud faster. “But you can trust them. They know what you did for us.”

Every muscle in me is tense, ready to run. My feet want to scramble out the door. But Claire is happily scooping oatmeal into a bowl. “Oh?” I say.

“We wanted to, you know, give you a heads-up,” Sean says. “Also, oatmeal.”

“Uh, thanks. Claire, pack what you need.”

“No!” Victoria says. “Please. Stay. That’s why we came—to tell you not to run.”

I stare at her as if she has three heads or sprouted feathers or just said something shockingly absurd like not to run when homicidal townspeople could be on their way to visit me with scythes and pitchforks and a shitload of lost guns.

“Look, we’re on your side now. Our plan worked! The void retreated!” Victoria gestures wildly. “You saw it, right?”

I nod. It had withdrawn by over a mile.

“So please, trust us. Stay here. Make new friends.” I think of Claire and the ridiculous balloon animal and wonder if I can trust them. “Tell me what you would have scavenged for today. We will fetch it for you.”

“Um...more toothpaste? A decent amount of shampoo?”

“All right, then. We’ll see what we can do. Come on, Sean. Leave the oatmeal.”

He snaps to attention as if on a leash and trots after her. I follow them as far as the porch and watch them leave, and then I restring the warning cans.

I want to flee to the art barn. But I make myself walk into the house and sit down at the dining room table with Claire.

“It’s good oatmeal,” Claire says.

I nod.

“Are we going to run?”

I want to. But if I’m going to be safe here, I need friends. Or at least allies. Peter can’t protect me every second, especially if he’s out looking for the Missing Man. “No,” I say, and I scoop up a spoonful of oatmeal. Listening for the cans, I watch the window.

I don’t put away the knife. Neither does Claire.

A few hours later, we have our first visitor: the girl from the motel. Her name tag reminds me that her name is Tiffany. She’s in Goth clothes and has a fake tattoo drawn on her neck with a black marker. I think it’s supposed to be a sword piercing a human heart. Or a deflated red volleyball. Either way, it’s been smudged by her shirt collar. She’s carrying a suitcase that she drops on the porch. It lands with a thunk. “Dude, you have to do something about the landscaping.”

“It’s supposed to keep away unwanted visitors.”

“Yeah, that’s not working so well, is it?” She smacks her gum, then blows a bubble. It pops. “Brought you some trinkets.” She unsnaps the suitcase. Inside is a wealth of travel-size toiletries, including the toothpaste and shampoo that I’d wanted, as well as a toothbrush still in its package. An unused toothbrush!

I pounce on the toothbrush and cradle it to my chest as if it’s a beloved family heirloom. “I think I have a granola bar to trade—”

She’s shaking her head. “I don’t want that.” She takes a breath, and I see her veneer of coolness flicker for a second. I picture her putting it on each morning: shirt, check; shoes, check; makeup, check; permanent sneer, check. “I want you to help me. Like you helped Victoria and Sean.”

Oh.

Of course.

Gently, I say, “I don’t mean to disappoint you, but I don’t even know what I did.”

Tiffany plants her hands on her hips. “You went into the void, and you found what they needed. I want you to do the same for me. Or no toothbrush.”

It’s such an absurd threat that I have to resist laughing. She’s intensely serious. “Can’t you find whatever you need outside the void? I’m happy to help you look—”

Tiffany shakes her head vigorously. “I’ve looked everywhere in Lost. The answers aren’t here. They’re in the void. Someone needs to go in and bring them out. If the Missing Man were here, I’d ask him. But he’s not, so I’m asking you.”

Claire hops up and down. “You can do it, Lauren! I know you can!”

I shoot her a look. She can’t be serious. I barely escaped last time. It took Peter and a train that is still embedded in the living room wall.

Swinging on my arm, Claire looks up at me with her bright eyes. “You can! You entered and left before. In your car. I saw you!” Her eyes are wide and earnest. She believes every word she’s saying.

She is right. I did drive into and out of the void, and I did find the star sapphire ring. But still, I’m not the Missing Man, or even a poor knockoff of him. I kneel beside Claire. I want her to understand this is serious. “Claire, if I go in there again, I might not come back.”

“Then I’ll send Peter in after you again!”

“Peter’s not here.”

“He’ll be back tonight. He comes back to you every night,” Claire says confidently. “He thinks you’re beautiful and clever and everything.” I feel myself blush, as if I’m back in high school and Claire has told me that the head of the basketball team thinks I’m the cat’s meow, which would never have happened because I was “artsy” and he wasn’t. His name was David, and the girls in my class used to call him “Dreamy David,” one of the stupidest and most apt nicknames I’d ever heard. His locker was next to mine senior year, and he said hi to me every day, but that was the extent of our relationship. Wish I could have told my high school self to suck it up and talk to him—worst that could have happened was a total rebuff and public humiliation, which would have ended with graduation anyway, and then I could have consoled myself with the knowledge that anyone who peaks in high school is doomed to have a miserable adulthood...unlike my oh-so-stellar one. I think of how Peter slept in my bed last night—and how he left again to search for the Missing Man.

Tiffany crosses her arms, clearly trying to look tough. “If you refuse to help me...I know a lot of people who’d like to know where you are.”

Standing, I raise my eyebrows and look at her. It’s easier to face her than to think about Claire’s assessment of Peter’s feelings, which may or may not be true, and my old high school insecurities, which I wish I’d left behind in high school. Ah, emotional baggage—the only kind of luggage I bet no one ever lost. “Blackmail? Really?”

“Just making a deal.” Tiffany drops her arms. “It’s what we do in Lost. You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours. Barter system.”

“If you turn me over to the mob, then I can’t ever help you,” I point out.

“I could bribe you,” Tiffany says.

I shake my head. “I don’t need anything that’s worth—”

“I know where Claire’s parents are.”

Words die in my throat. I look at Claire. She’s paled. Her tiny hands clutch each other, balling up the hot pink satin skirt. Her lower lip quivers. The white glow skitters over her skin. “Where?” I ask.

Tiffany smiles. “Go into the void, find me what I lost, and I’ll tell you.”

“How do I know you know?”

“Wow, you are suspicious. Can I say a little bird told me?”

I cross my arms and glare at her. “No.” Claire is looking back and forth between us as if watching an intense tennis match. I think she’s holding her breath.

“Okay, then, I saw the newspapers from when she disappeared. Lots of newspapers show up in Lost. I skim them for anyone who might be here, and there was the cutest little picture of our cutie-pie in several of them. Her parents had given a tear-filled press conference.”

Claire’s eyes are huge. “They did?”

“Claimed it was a mix-up. Your dad thought you were with your mom, and your mom thought you were with your dad, and they didn’t compare notes until the end of the day. By that time, you’d wandered out of the police station and poof! You were gone.”

I reach over and hug Claire’s shoulders. “See, I knew it was an accident!”

“Or they said it was,” Tiffany corrects.

Squeezing Claire, I say to her, “They miss you!” She seems numb, limp like a cloth doll. I shoot a glare at Tiffany. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell her this sooner.”

“Because it gets bad. Here’s the kicker—for a while, your parents were suspected of killing you. No proof was ever found, of course, since, you know, you’re here. But must have sucked because they moved. One paper even said where.”

Claire’s mouth forms a perfect O.

“Where?” I ask.

Tiffany shakes her head. “That’s for me to know and—”

“You have to tell us,” I say, my arm still around Claire. She’s trembling now. “You can’t torture a little girl like this. Where are they?”

“Help me, and I’ll help you.”

“She’s a kid! You can’t—”

“I’m a kid, too, or I was,” Tiffany says. “I don’t know why I’m here. Until I know why I’m here, I can never leave. Do you know how that feels, to know that even if the Missing Man were to return tomorrow, I can’t leave? I have to spend eternity in this dead town with these dead people in the same dead job...” She sucks in air. “Please. Please, try!”

Claire clutches my hand. “Lauren. She knows about my parents.”

I look in Claire’s eyes and know I can’t say no. I’ll be careful this time. I’ll...think happy thoughts. If I’m trapped in the void again, I won’t panic. I’ll listen for the train. Or maybe I’ll walk out of there myself. I did drive in and out of the dust several times... And Peter will be back by nightfall. He always is. I’ll have a few hours to find what Tiffany needs, and then if I can’t leave myself, Peter will fetch me. So long as I don’t lose hope, he can find me.

Tiffany’s smiling. She knows she’s won.

I invite her inside and usher her into the living room. I offer her some water and some cookies—we have plenty of cookies. We even have some juice boxes, though I’d rather save those for Claire. “Do you know what you lost?”

“Yeah.”

“Well?”

“My memories.” She taps her head. “I remember my life absolutely perfectly up to right before I came here. But I don’t remember how I ended up here.”

“Tell me what you do remember.”

“Well, it was prom. May 17, 1986.”

“1986? But you don’t look...” I trail off. “Sorry. Continue.”

“I had a hot-pink dress. Stiff satin. Sequins. Puffed miniskirt. Painted my nails to match, also had hot pink eye shadow. My parents took about a zillion photos of me and my date on the front step. He wouldn’t put his hands on my waist. Way too terrified to touch me in front of my dad. His name was Robert. My date, I mean, not my dad. He’d borrowed his parents’ car to drive me and Michelle and her date...what was his name?” She pauses, chews on her lower lip. “Lloyd? Can that be right?”

“Lloyd Dobler?” I ask.

“Yes! How did...” Her eyes narrow. “That’s from a movie. Are you testing me?”

“Sorry.” I’m not. She’d waxed poetic over the details of a dress that should have faded from memory by now. I don’t feel guilty for being suspicious. I’ve never met a teenager who’s older than I am. “You went with Robert, Michelle, and Lloyd...”

“Or whatever his name was.”

“And then?”

“We had the radio up, and we were laughing about...I don’t know what. I know we were having a great time. But I can’t remember the prom itself. I remember every little detail leading up to the big event. But I don’t remember the arrival or taking the cheesy prom photo that everyone takes or if anyone spiked the punch or if ‘Stairway to Heaven’ was the last song or if the gym teacher was chaperone and if he danced or if the DJ played the ‘Electric Slide’ or any of it. I was in my prom dress when I came here. I still have it.” She opens the suitcase again and pulls out a brown paper bag. It’s stuffed with pink satin. She pulls out a dress and shakes it so the skirt hangs down: hot pink, sequins, puffed skirt, exactly as she’d described. Wrinkles crisscross the entire dress, and it’s yellowed under the armpits. It could easily be from 1986. It’s not proof, but...does it matter how old she is or isn’t? She’s lost, and there’s a nonzero chance that I could help her like I helped Victoria and Sean.

Seeing the dress, Claire claps her hands. “Ooh, can I try it on?”

Tiffany tosses it to her.

Squealing in delight, Claire squirms out of her princess dress and pulls on the 1980s prom dress. It hangs loose around her. She twirls, and the satin flaps. “Can I have it?”

Tiffany looks at me. “She hasn’t said yes yet.”

Claire turns her puppy eyes toward me.

“Fine. Yes.” For Claire. For her to find her parents. For her to have what she lost. And for me, to know if the star sapphire ring was a fluke or if I really am, as Peter would say, “interesting.”

“Yay!” Claire throws her arms around my neck.

I hope I don’t regret this. “If I’m not back in a few hours, tell Peter to save me. Maybe without the train wreck this time.”